


Melted Phoenix

by Novapple



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Has PTSD, Depression, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Proceed with caution, That violence warning is serious guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 16:25:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18472663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novapple/pseuds/Novapple
Summary: He never cared about his looks.But now mirrors are avoided at all costs. No more pausing at his reflection in a storefront window to straighten his tie. In fact, he stays buried in Cole’s old bed throughout most of everyday, not even wanting to risk seeing himself in the black of the powered down television. He knows Hank can barely stand to look at him.He never realized how vain he truly was, until he lost every bit of himself.





	Melted Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for depictions of depression and violence. This is pretty dark in the beginning :-/

He never cared about his looks.

But now mirrors are avoided at all costs. No more pausing at his reflection in a storefront window to straighten his tie. In fact, he stays buried in Cole’s old bed throughout most of everyday, not even wanting to risk seeing himself in the black of the powered down television. He knows Hank can barely stand to look at him.

He never realized how vain he truly was, until he lost every bit of himself.

***

There are nine of them and they conceal their identities behind cheap Halloween masks. They’re not stupid; they know of his capabilities.

There is only one other android— a PC200 model who performed services for the DPD before the revolution. Connor doesn’t know his name. He asks, hoping to put the both of them at ease with a distraction. The only sound the android seems capable of making is a fearful whimper.

He understands.

They are most likely going to die a horrific death in just a few minutes if the jugs of oil are anything to go by.

He tries threatening their captors. Telling them that his backup will be arriving any minute and they will all be charged with kidnapping and assault. It is, of course, a lie. He doesn’t know when exactly backup is coming or how far away they are, but he knows Hank recieved his emergency alert. He just hopes they get here before the hateful humans do something drastic. 

When one man begins dousing the oil over their restrained bodies, he tries bargaining.

“Let us go now and I’ll forget all about this.”

“Once the others arrive, it’ll be too late for you. Just take—” oil splashes into his face, choking him and temporarily blinding him.

 _Please_.

He wants so badly to beg, to cry, to show the fear he’s feeling so deep inside.

He will not beg these disgusting humans for his life or anyone else’s. If he’s to die, then he’s going to keep some semblance of dignity. They would only find it amusing, anyway.

He briefly wonders if Gavin was ever like this. An android burner. The man has warmed up to him a considerable amount in three years; it’s hard to think about how horribly their relationship started.

And Connor had almost kissed him two days ago.

Now he’ll probably never get another chance.

Awful timing for his mind to be wandering to thoughts of _Gavin_ _Reed_ , but he very much wishes he were here right now. Or Hank. Anyone, really.

 _Where_ _is_ _his_ _backup_?

The fire is set ablaze.

The PC200 screams, even though they can’t feel pain. He struggles against his bonds, tries not to pay attention to his own clothes beginning to catch fire. He can’t move. He can’t save himself or this innocent android.

The screams stop abruptly and Connor figures he must’ve self destructed from stress. His own levels are rising rapidly and he makes himself take steady breaths. Carbon monoxide can’t hurt him the way it can humans. He just has to hold out until Hank gets here…

He waits.

And burns.

And waits.

The humans leave. Escape from justice.

Error messages begin to pop up, one after another, biocomponents critically damaged. It’s only then that he starts truly panicking. Why haven’t they come for him?

Morbid curiosity gets the better of him, even in death, and he looks down at himself. He understands why the PC200 had been screaming in agony even with the absence of pain. It’s a horror show, seeing his own skin melting off, clothes long gone by now. The sight sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated fear through him. _No_ _one_ _is_ _coming_ _and_ _he_ _is_ _going_ _to_ _die_.

There is so much he wanted to do.

He wonders if the DPD with have a memorial service for him like they do for human officers.

He thrusts around wildly, just wanting to _put_ _the_ _fire_ _out_ , but he’s tied upright, firmly in place.

And he cries. And screams. Screams for Hank, for Gavin, for anyone to save him. Dignity doesn’t matter now that the captors are gone. He can look as weak as he truly is.

It hurts.

He can’t feel pain.

But it _hurts_.

“Help me,” he gasps, breathing exercises abandoned.

And in his last moments of consciousness he thinks of Hank. Of how this poor man lost one son to ice and now he’ll have lost one to fire. From one extreme to another.

***

“Oh, god.”

“No.”

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit.”

“Con?”

“Connor.”

“Fuck, Hank, he’s still alive.”

***

He has barely left the safety of bed since he quit the DPD a month ago. There are so many reasons why he can’t and they all add up to him being a coward.

He’s ugly.

His synthetic skin is gone and all that remains is white plastic casing. Some of it isn’t even his. They had to replace bits and pieces. He is no longer whole.

Some other androids wear their true skin proudly and he admires their resilience, but that is not him.

People used to compliment his appearance, comments ranging from sexy to adorable. He loved it. He loved knowing he was classically beautiful by human standards. Now there is nothing left. He’s looked in the mirror exactly once and didn’t recognize himself.

He’s scared.

The men got away— they’re still out there and they have to know he survived. There’s been news coverage about it, much to his frustration. He doesn’t doubt that they’ll try to come back for him.

He’s just…sad. All the time.

Ever since deviating, Hank has been trying to convince him to see a therapist due to his “suicidal tendencies,” but now the pain inside him has spread just like the fire he was burned in. It only eases when feelings of numbness take over.

He would’ve liked to come back from this as something stronger, like a pheonix from the ashes. Like how it happens in books and movies. But he’s just broken and there’s nothing poetic about it. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he does nothing.

He’s hardly seen anyone other than Hank and the only reason he sees _him_ everyday is because this is his house. He’s moved out of his apartment and back into Cole’s old room, just like how it was after the revolution. He’s terrified of being alone, but at the same time the only thing he wants is to be alone.

Chloe visits once a week and she leaves frustrated each time.

North came once and he got in a shouting match with her.

Hank says Markus and Simon visited him while he was in the hospital being repaired, but he was still unconscious. They message him and he never responds.

Much like with Gavin.

When he first awoke in the hospital, Hank, Gavin, and Tina stood beside his bed all arguing with one another. They didn’t notice him trying to speak and suddenly the realization and shock at still being alive was too much. He went back into stasis immediately. It feels like he’s been sleeping ever since.

He hasn’t seen him since that moment, but Gavin has texted a few times.

 ** _Weird_** **_u_** **_not_** **_being_** **_here_** **_to_** **_annoy_** **_the_** **_shit_** **_outta_** **_me_**

 ** _U_** **_doing_** **_ok??_**

 ** _DPD_** **_would_** **_hire_** **_u_** **_back_** **_if_** **_u_** **_wanted_** **_u_** **_know_**

He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he does feel guilty for avoiding him. Especially after he’d been centimeters away from kissing the man.

And he knows that he cannot go back to being a detective. He can’t even go outside.

Everyone is just trying to help him, but it’s unnecessary. He doesn’t want or need any help.

Most nights he wishes the fire would have just went ahead and killed him.

***

“I’m telling you, that it’s enough. It’s been two months, now, you’ve had plenty of time to stew and feel sorry for yourself.”

“You’re not a very good one to talk.”

He doesn’t want to fight with Hank, but the words spilling from his lips say otherwise.

“Ex-fuckin’-cuse me? I lost my _child_ , Connor, you lost your fake skin.”

“I lost _myself_ ,” he raises his voice to match Hank’s. “Sometimes I wake up and feel so afraid, I can’t even breathe because I’m burning and nobody’s coming! And I just keep pushing everyone away, so when they come to kill me again, nobody will help me because _everyone_ _will hate me.”_

His voice becomes staccato halfway through and angry, upset, sad— _all_ _of_ _it_ — tears come streaming out. He hasn’t told anyone of the fear he felt at the prospect of being abandoned.

Hank’s brows draw together.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” he sobs pitifully and swipes at his cheeks, but it only makes everything worse when he feels hard plastic instead of soft skin. He could scream from being so tired and frustrated.

The bed dips down and an arm is slung over his shoulders, pulling him into a warm embrace. He flinches. It’s the first time he’s been touched in two months.

“I’m never gonna hate you, son. No matter how hard you try to get me to.”

He stifles his wails into a sturdy shoulder. “I’m grateful that you saved my life, it’s just that, sometimes, I wish you hadn’t.”

“Jesus. You’re really in the fuckin’ shit, huh? Listen, I’m making you a therapy appointment. And you’re going. You should have a long time ago, you’re bound to have…PTSD or some shit.”

He opens his mouth, ready to vehemently object, but Hank cuts in.

“You busted my ass until I went, remember?”

He cries and cries and cries until he’s sure his cleaning fluid supply has run out. Until he feels like a new being.

“And by the way, I sure as hell didn’t save you. We got there and I fuckin’ puked my guts up. Much as I hate to admit it, Gavin’s the one who had the balls to go over to you. Found out you were alive. He carried you to the car, didn’t leave the hospital for days.”

He feels like he can’t breathe for an entirely different reason now.

“He’s leading the investigation on those creeps, you know? Don’t think the guy’s slept in a month. Maybe you should talk to him.” Hank gives him a stern look before closing the door. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

How is he supposed to rest after _that_ bomb drop of information? He didn’t even know there was an investigation going on, least of all from Gavin.

 _He_ _carried you_   _to_ _the_ _car_.

Gavin has touched his burned, plastic body. And then sat with him in the hospital despite being a charred machine?

He’s not sure how to feel about that, but his thirium pump beats faster. Maybe… maybe he’ll text him back. To thank him at the very least.

 _Hi_.

A reply comes almost immediately.

 _ **Wow**_   ** _he_** _**lives**_

 _ **Bad**_ **_joke_** _**sorry :-/**_

***

He covers as much of himself as he possibly can on his first day out of the house. He’s only going to therapy, but he can’t be too careful. A comforting beanie sits snugly on his head and a scarf wraps around the lower half of his face. He’s grateful it’s December, so his layers and layers of clothes are acceptable.

By accident, he catches himself in the mirror before he leaves. He’s hidden so well that only the plastic around his eyes and nose is visible, and it’s not until now that he notices his eyes. Still the same.

His eyes still look exactly the same.

***

PTSD and other anxiety disorders are, unfortunately, extremely common among his people. Like in the case of humans, there is no cure— only help. But _unlike_ humans, androids cannot ingest medication to assist, which is why the “android therapist” career path took off so widely and quickly.

Connor’s therapist says he was most likely already a cocktail of the DSM before what happened three months ago. This was just the final traumatic event to finally set him off. He supposes she’s right. It was only a matter of time before the raging fire inside him spread to the outside.

It is surprisingly easy to tell her about things he could never tell Hank or anyone one else. They talk about how he was convinced no one was coming to help him that day, that they weren’t coming because nobody cared.

“But they did come,” she nods with a slight smile. She is young but seems wise beyond her years.

“They did.”

And he is trying, trying so hard to believe that they would do so again.

***

He doesn’t know what to expect, showing up at Gavin’s apartment late at night, unannounced.

They’ve been texting for two months and Connor hasn’t seen him in five. He has to thank him in person for saving his life— he’s composed a thousand different messages since he found out and none of them sound right. All meaningless. He just needs to see him.

He misses him.

He’s torturing himself, worrying about how Gavin will react to the way he looks. Seeing a broken, burned, half-dead body in a hospital bed is one thing. But now that he’s okay? He’s so scared Gavin will be disgusted with him. He doesn’t know if he can take that.

He doesn’t know what he would do if he lost their mutual passive aggressive flirting that was possibly leading somewhere before everything happened.

He wants it back. He wants Gavin back. He wants his life back.

Whatever he expects, it is certainly not the wide range of emotions flickering across Gavin’s face when he opens the door. It settles on something between shock and a sleepy softness. His hair sticks out on one side and lays flat on the other— he must have been in bed.

Connor aches to touch.

But he feels so exposed, not even wearing a hat. And Gavin is beautiful and Connor is—

He is not ugly. They just look very different now. 

Maybe this was a mistake.

“I’m sorry. I should go.”

There’s a hand around his wrist before he can even turn to leave.

“Connor.”

Gavin isn’t letting go of him. Even feeling the cold plastic of his arm, he’s still touching him. All it takes is a barely-there tug foreword and Connor is melting into him.

“Nice of you to finally come around, asshole,” Gavin mutters against his head where thick hair used to be. He could cry from how from how good the arms around him feel.

“I didn’t want anyone to see me.”

He still doesn’t. But he’s trying.

“You idiot, you know I like you no matter what you look like.”

Connor pulls away.

“You don’t even like androids who look human, Gavin, and I— I look like the villain in a comic book film.”

“Cut the bullshit, you know none of that is true. I mean, yeah, your egg head is gonna take some getting used to,” he grabs his arm again to pull him inside the apartment. “But it’s still you.”

Gavin’s hand falls over his chest exactly where his thirium pump beats erratically.

”Besides—”

“Please don’t say something like ‘All that matters is what’s in here.’” He really doesn’t know if he could handle a sentence that cliché coming from Gavin’s mouth. He can _barely_ handle the softness coming from him right now.

“Jesus, do you even know me?” Gavin laughs but his face sobers quickly.

“We thought you were dead, you know? And then we thought you were _gonna_ die. So, I was just gonna say that this?” Gavin’s fingers tap once against his heart. “Feels nice.”

***

Life, he has found, has a way of beating everyone down. It does not discriminate. Every being’s struggles are different, each feeling like no one could possibly have it any worse than they do. And they’re right. Because life manufactures tiny personal hells for each and every person. Suffering is immeasurable.

But sometimes

“Connor?”

He has found that life is also

“We got them.”

Rewarding.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If it seems like this had an abrupt shift in tone....u are probably right


End file.
